Locked In With Sherlock
by How Now Meow
Summary: There's a storm outside and the power is out. John is locked inside the flat, trapped with an increasingly restless Sherlock. He's not sure he'll survive.


_A/N: As promising as the premise might seem, this story is squeaky clean, sorry to say! Still hope you enjoy._

* * *

**Locked In With Sherlock  
**

10:06 P.M.

One of the continent's strongest rainstorms beats against the windows of 221B Baker Street.

One of the world's brightest minds struggles with coiling a thin copper wire around a nail, stuck through a tiny cardboard box with two open ends.

"Give it up, Sherlock," John says. He sits comfortably in his armchair as he tries to read the paper by the light from his phone. "You can't make your own electricity source with the rubbish we've got laying around here."

He realizes a little too late that his flat mate has taken his statement as a challenge. John looks up from the paper to see Sherlock sitting on the floor, glaring at him as his hands continue to fumble with the wire at an agitated pace.

"At least work by the window?" John offers, trying to smile. "You'll hurt your eyes all curled up in that dark spot on the carpet."

The storm had caused a street-wide power outage thirty-three minutes ago. John only knows this because Sherlock has been counting the minutes out loud.

"Thirty-four," he hears Sherlock mutter, as he picks up a bar magnet from his stash of gathered materials.

"Are you doing this because you're desperate for the power to come back on or because you're _bored?_" asks John, a little afraid of the second option because he knows its implications on his flat mate's and more importantly _his _future well-being.

"You're distracting me," Sherlock snaps.

John is used to not receiving answers. He shrugs it off and goes back to his paper, but it's dimmer than before because the moon has been lost behind the storm clouds.

"Thirty-five," he hears Sherlock grumble after some silence.

Then he hears a soft, muffled clatter of pieces of metal and looks up. Sherlock's creation lies in a ruined pile on the rug, while Sherlock himself lies beside it.

"Couldn't figure it out?" John asks gently. A defeated Sherlock has to be handled with the utmost care.

"Of _course _I figured it out," Sherlock snaps at him again. "I've just realized I grabbed for the wrong kind of nail with how bloody dark it is. Where are the rest of the nails?"

"That… that was the last of them."

"What are you talking about? We bought plenty."

"Well… remember when you broke the door this morning?" At seven-forty-six A.M. that day, Sherlock had wanted to see if he was able to escape from a room while strapped to a chair in duct tape. He'd knocked over John's mug of coffee, ripped about a square foot of wallpaper off the side of the living room, and kicked down the door, all while tied to his chair. "After I carried you and the chair into your bedroom, I set to work on fixing the door."

"So?" Sherlock asks.

"So… it's fixed," replies John, mildly confused. He gestures to their main door, which, sure enough, is upright and still attached to the door frame.

"I'm not an idiot, John. A door doesn't need a _nail_ in it."

"Well, you wrecked the door frame along with it and I had to fix that too," John huffs. The two spend a brief moment of silence, glaring at each other.

"Perhaps if I-"

"You're not tearing down the door frame, Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbles like a child. He draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them sulkily. "Now you've deprived me of all I could possibly do to entertain myself… _thirty-six._"

"Maybe not," John smiles as he starts tapping something into his phone. "Why don't we call up Scotland Yard for some fun?"

He hasn't even finished bringing the phone to his ear when Sherlock scrambles to his feet, sprints over and bends to listen to the call as hard as he can. John hears it ring two or three times until Lestrade finally picks up.

"Greg, how are you?... yes, we're both of us fine. Listen, the power's out in Baker Street and the poor man's restless. Have you got a case for us?... Oh?... But, even if we were willing without payment?... That's not… but what if we… are you sure?... Fine, fine. Thank you, anyway. Bye."

As John hangs up, he sees the mild panic behind Sherlock's eyes. "Sorry, mate. They've got a case, murder somewhere in Albany Street, but…"

"But _what_, John?" asks Sherlock frantically.

"Lestrade's superior's gotten cross about how they always ask your help. He says it's ruining Scotland Yard's image. You're not to come around to assist for now. His boss says it's gotten to your head that Scotland Yard is nothing without you."

"That's completely ridiculous!" Sherlock throws his hands up, infuriated. He starts to pace back and forth across the living room. "They _are_ nothing without me!"

"Let it go, Sherlock," John tries to soothe him, a little bit in vain. "Just wait it out a while, and after that you can march down there and prove them as wrong as you'd like."

"Oh, I'd like to," his flat mate snarls, with the hint of a smile. Now John is slightly scared. "In fact, I'd like to right at this instant!"

Sherlock stomps over to the door. He grasps the doorknob, turns it, and pulls-

-and pulls and pulls and pulls. The door doesn't budge. He twists it the other way and tries again. No luck. The door stands glued to the frame.

"John," he says quietly. Now John is frightened. "Have you any idea how to fix a door?"

"I… well I figured that… I… no."

Instead of the terrifying outburst and loss of fingers that John expects to follow, Sherlock steps back from the door, walks to the middle of their carpet, and flops down onto it. Now he's throwing a tantrum.

John feels a little sorry for him. He stands up from his armchair and walks to the door, trying to open it himself. It's no use. He wonders too late if he's rebuilt the door so that it can't swing open at all.

"Maybe we can ask Mrs. Hudson to open it for us," he offers to the Sherlock-shaped lump groaning on the floor. He turns, bangs on the door and calls out, "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson? Hello! We're locked in!"

"No use," he hears Sherlock mumble against the carpet. "She goes to bed at nine-twenty."

"Well, maybe she'll wake up if we call her," John fishes his mobile from his pocket. "Have you got her number?"

"She hasn't got a phone," says Sherlock from the floor.

John frowns. "How would you know?"

"It's _obvious. _Look at her _thumbs_."

John tries to ignore the tone of his voice and keeps hitting the door, yelling Mrs. Hudson's name.

"It's no use, John," Sherlock moans as he rolls over to stare at the ceiling. "No one's home to open the door for us… unless-"

"You're not kicking down the door strapped to a chair again, Sherlock."

Sherlock drops his head back against the floor. "Fine. Leave me here to wither and die and be bored."

"Well, as long as we're trapped," John says, attempting to keep the mood light. He starts for the kitchen. "I'm famished. Want me to grab you something to eat from the fridge-"

"_No_," Sherlock pipes up quickly. John freezes and looks at him. He's gotten halfway off the floor, and has one of his hands up in a _stop _gesture. "There's a human heart sliced in half in there, John! You open that fridge while there's no power and you'll _spoil _it."

"Alright, I'm not hungry anymore anyway," John sighs and drops down into his armchair.

The room is darker than before, and the storm outside rages on. John fiddles with the applications on his phone while Sherlock curls up on the floor, still quietly suffering.

* * *

11:52 A.M.

"One-hundred and thirty-nine minu-"

"Shut the _bloody hell _up, Sherlock." John sighs and he brings his mobile away from his ear. "Well, I've called Scotland Yard. Nobody there is willing to come down and unlock the door for us… aaand my battery's just died. Bloody wonder."

"What am I supposed to do until the power comes back?" Sherlock moans. He's moved from throwing a tantrum on the carpet to throwing a tantrum in his armchair.

"Why don't you go off to bed?" John says gently. For himself, he's used to staying up through the night in case the surgery calls him up for an emergency. "You can sleep the rest of the power outage away."

"I can't go to _sleep_," Sherlock scoffs as if it's the stupidest idea in the world. "I reserve ten to four for my _thinking _time. It's when you retreat to your bedroom and I don't have to have my trains of thought interrupted by your senseless blithering."

"_My_ senseless blithering!" John exclaims, now annoyed. "This coming from Sherlock-listen-to-me-go-on-about-this-dead-man's-feet-and-big-toes-and-what-it-says-about-his-manic-depression-Holmes! It's not as fascinating as you think, sir!"

"There were _darkened patches of skin_ and they were overall paler than his ankles!" Sherlock yells, getting to his feet from his chair. "His blood circulation was weak and he was obviously tired of his life! And that's much more fascinating than anything that's going to happen to you!"

"You say that again, Sherlock!" John yells back as he stands up from his chair. He grabs Sherlock by the collar. "I spent years in Afghanistan fighting off terrorists and wrapping bandages around bashed up heads in the middle of the battlefield! That's more to handle than for an unemployed man whose boredom is remedied by triple-homicides!"

"You don't think I could handle fighting someone off!"

"I don't think! I most definitely _know!_"

Sherlock responds with a childish shove.

John responds the same way.

Five minutes, half a ruined bookshelf, and two broken armchairs later, the two quietly sit on the floor back-to-back, nursing their respective bruises.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry I called your blithering senseless."

"Hmmm."

"And… I'm sorry I said you weren't fascinating. You're very fascinating to me."

"I'm sorry I called you an unemployed man whose boredom is remedied by triple-homicides," John apologizes before Sherlock can say anything more unsettling.

"Hmm, yes," he senses Sherlock nodding. "Besides, it's not true. I require something like a quadruple-homicide… or a double-murder-suicide of some sort, with the murder weapon missing. Or maybe even-"

"It's alright, Sherlock. I understand."

The storm outside continues to pound against their windows.

* * *

1:15 A.M.

John forces himself awake when he hears a strange noise. Sherlock is no longer resting against his back. He turns his head and he sees what Sherlock has in his hand, pointed at their door.

"Sherlock, put the gun down."

"I _can't_, John. I've got to get out of here. _I'm so bored-"_

"Sherlock, I swear, you will put that revolver down or I will march to the fridge and open it and spoil your half-sliced heart!"

Sherlock puts down the revolver and goes back to sulking.

* * *

2:29 A.M.

"John. John, wake up."

"Hmmmmm."

"John, wake up. Look, I've fixed our chairs."

He pries his own eyes open and looks up from his spot on the carpet. Sure enough, their two armchairs are back to their upright position, and Sherlock stands over him beaming.

"Well, see?" John yawns as he gets to his feet. He walks over to ease into his chair. "You managed to do something productive without-"

His armchair collapses under his weight. Bewildered, John peeks at the legs of the chair from his seat.

"You fixed it… with duct tape."

Sherlock shrugs. He nudges his rolled-back sleeves back to full-length. "You used all the nails on our door frame."

"Bloody bastard. You were just seeking revenge on me."

"But I can't sleep and I'm so _bored_… has Scotland Yard called back yet?"

"I already told you, they don't want you around for now. Did you forget?"

"Of _course _I didn't forget," snaps Sherlock. "I just figured they've given up by now."

John shakes his head, curls up into a more comfortable position in his broken chair, and closes his eyes. He falls asleep to Sherlock muttering, "That heart in the fridge must be ruined by now…"

He has some nightmares.

* * *

5:25 A.M.

"John… John. John. John."

"Hmmmmm," John, with his eyes still glued shut, turns his face towards the voice.

"No. Don't wake up entirely. That will ruin it. Just tell me… where did you hide the Malboros?"

"Not… telling you," even while half-awake, John knows not to answer that question.

"Come _on_, damn it. Where are they? They're not under the skull like last time."

"Bugger… off," John yawns. He buries his face into the side of his arm chair.

Sherlock kicks him and goes away. As he drifts back to sleep, he hears a soft pattering against the windows. The storm has died down.

* * *

5:52 A.M.

"John. John. John. John."

"Hmmmm."

"Malboros."

Now John just wants to be left alone to sleep. "They're in the fridge," he yawns.

Silence.

"Damn it, John."

* * *

7:10 A.M.

The electricity is back. John plugs his mobile phone charger into the outlet, looks skyward and asks God never to let it go away again.

With a final, desperate tug, Mrs. Hudson wrenches the door open from the other side. The door frame comes off a little, but John's still immensely relieved.

"You poor boys!" Mrs. Hudson says as she walks back down the stairs. "To think that you were trapped in here all this time… and the state of your flat, what in God's name…"

"Well, looks like I do have an idea how to fix a door," John says proudly. "Sherlock, fancy going out for some good coffee-"

Sherlock lays face-down on the couch, all four limbs extended and dangling off the sides, snoring.

John stands where he is for a while, and grins. He pulls a blanket off one of the chairs and drapes it over Sherlock.

"You know something funny?" he tells his sleeping flat mate. "I can't decide whether I like you better awake or asleep."

Sherlock shifts a bit, and mumbles something about big toes.

John hears the text alert tone of his mobile. He walks over to it and picks it up.

_Lestrade (message sent 7:09 A.M.)_

_Morning John. Tell Sherlock that while he was right that the murder was actually a suicide because "the angle of the gunshot was impossible if another person had made it", and "it was obvious from the victim's feet that he was depressed", we don't want him sneaking into crime scenes late at night and leaving notes for the Yard. Thanks._

John reads and rereads the message, stunned. _But the door was locked…_

He looks at the left window of the flat. It's wide open.

"Sherlock," John sighs. "How did you even…"

But at least now the consulting detective is fast asleep in his couch, finally at peace. John smiles a bit, and he walks out and closes the door behind him.

Feeling confident about his new-found repairman skills, John gives the doorknob a twist and a push.

It's… locked.

Oh God.


End file.
